


this sinking feeling feels just fine

by slowshow



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/F, Mutual Pining, Songfic, for me at least, second person because nothing flows like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowshow/pseuds/slowshow
Summary: She smiles anyway, covers your hands with hers and pulls them down, down, inside her own patted pockets.“It’s like you’re trying to get sick.”





	this sinking feeling feels just fine

_You had me pressed on arrival_

When you meet her, you don’t exactly place your heart between her teeth. 

You’ve spent a portion of your life learning how to weave around peoples hearts, dodge their forthcoming feelings, how to mask your hurt when they win, and you lose.

So you don’t start making fucking heart eyes at her, or anything, your guard is that of steel, but you do imagine how she’d react to it.

_I spent too many nights on my own_

You pop two sleeping pills, worth a try, even with your killer acid reflux, and curl up in the far corner of your bed, against the cool, hard drywall.

She stirs in her sleep, murmurs your name, you ignore that huge swell happening in your chest at the sound, a chemical reaction that you can’t exactly combat.

_You look so right I had to ask_

You’re clutching one of her simple sweaters, you ask her if you can wear it, like it’s nothing, like it’s not the ugliest piece of fabric you’ve ever seen. You think she’s too busy doing all the right things all of the time to ever wipe those crumbs of surprise off her face.

“Sure,” she replies, trying to not let you see her smile, but you do.

_I don’t want to drag you down_

“I don’t fucking care,” you say. Mostly true.

“Try remembering, Madison.”

She curls a hand over her forehead, ‘I’m pathetically tired’ written all over the soft turns of her face. She’s stayed up with you tonight, in the dark hues of your shared room, to review spells.

“Remind me again.”

_So think of me driving fast_

You take Fiona’s car for a night drive whenever it’s there, because it’s faster than Cordelia’s, and because you’ve forgotten what sleep feels like these past few weeks.

You picture four wheels treading, etching, burning over asphalt as you drive, mapping out the recesses of your mind that you keep avoiding. You envision running over Kyle, you’re pushing a hundred and ten now; and it’s all too fucking romantic if you’re honest, you’re so warm and willing for her. 

You drive so far you hit pine forest and fleeting fog, a single winding road.

_Sinking feeling feels just fine_

You wake up with bile breaching your esophagus, working itself up, up, up, until Zoe’s got your hair all pulled back in her soft hands, a bucket in your lap. 

You throw up in bed a lot, you must reek; and you hate that, you hate being such a useless, dripping thing around her.

But she touches you like you’re not repulsive, wipes your mouth, even, and you’re stricken by her scent—she’s so squeaky clean, so pure it pains you —how it opposes your own so greatly, that you forget to push her away.

_Think it’s time we set things in motion_

“Again?”

“Barely my tenth, today. Don’t look so proud.”

“I thought you said you were down to seven cigarettes a day.”

“I was. Now I’m not,” you prompt, easily. You like when surprise coats her features, but less so when it’s borne of disappointment.

She doesn’t frown, but she works her jaw a little, not enough for anyone but you to notice, because you are so ever-attentive when it comes to her and its kind of difficult to quit that lately, too.

You want to ask her to come with you, to sit by you and inhale your exhale, to share what was once in your lungs, right next to the thing that beats all too big for her lately (you realize this is especially pathetic and so not you, however true.)

Instead, she beats you to it, one-upping you again, trails her fingers over your wrist and you involuntarily ache because she hasn’t done this in a while.

“Can’t you just sleep? You’re going to be up even later if you smoke again, it keeps you up.”

“Stay up with me, then.”

It wouldn’t be the first time her lovely roll of eyes made your chest swell. 

Surely not the last. And she doesn’t even say anything, just tugs you by your first two fingers, toward the bed.

She sits before you do, she’s finally shorter than you, thank fucking god, as you straddle her lap, tucking your chin and dropping your head against hers so that she can’t witness how this affects you. 

You can feel her warm breath—mouthwash, of course—on your face, the chill of her skin when she thumbs a hole in your jeans, over your thigh. 

You don’t kiss. You only move, rock, nimble in her lap, as she encourages you, eager and earnest, and it’s more than enough to get you there, keep you from smoking another.

_Press up closer, you drive me mad_

You’re eating yogurt and granola in the grand kitchen, the sun freshly peeled, low and piercing the horizon. 

A snack like this is usually enough to ease the stomach pain, but when you finish, tossing the spoon in the sink and rinsing out the pale dish, you feel just as shitty.

Cordelia offers you one of her off-putting herbal teas, sloshing it around in a mason jar before she hands it to you, claiming that it will help your gut. 

You accept it, but there’s no way in hell you’re drinking that.

Zoe is sporting overalls, again, a black one over a clean white tee-shirt. The shirt is yours, ostensibly, because it is a little tighter on her frame, and you bask in that, map out all of it with your eyes and file it away in your mind hurriedly.

As annoying as this whole yearning thing is, you still momentarily wish she’d just push you up against the furniture, stop asking so many questions and just give you more. 

You’d like to feel something that equals the strength of the corrosive thing building itself in your chest, think Zoe has always been its match; only difference is she’s good.

_Break my pride, what's left_

They’re at some local Poke establishment, because according to Queenie, this place has the best sushi in New Orleans. She’s wrong; the best sushi in town is three blocks away, there’s at least another two that are just as good as here, but you’re too tired to educate right now.

Zoe slips into the restroom, pulls you into the confined space with her. 

She’s got another hopeful look in her eye, of however many of those she has, you’ve counted three, but this one is slightly different than the others.

Your heart literally feels like it’s taking a wizard of oz journey throughout the rest of your body when she presses her mouth against yours. And you’re not an idiot, so you move closer.

You kiss her deeply, again and again, it’s like release, like relapse before the guilt sets in, and there’s no better salve; you think the thing in your chest is finally afraid.

_Wrap up, it’s freezing outside_

You don’t remember exactly when you got so gross, so skinny it stopped being attractive.

She still looks at you like you’ve got all the tools, like you’re gold, not recycled plastics and paper, useless shrapnel.

You wear all of her sweaters, fingering the many holes in her sleeves, savor the feeling of sharing something with someone and actually liking it.

There’s like, three lessons you should be preparing for, and maybe just sleeping would be a better course of action, but you drag her outside, to the front yard, anyway.

The rain covers you as you lead Zoe by the hand to the front gates, that one massive tree serving as shelter. You lean back against the cool bars of the gate, watch as she glances up at the sky. 

She’s wearing a brown leather jacket— Fiona’s, from the nineties—and you love how it falls over her shoulders. It would be enormous on your small frame, but Zoe’s shoulders are wide, strong and that of a swimmers, and you pull at her collar with your hands because you want her so much. As much as you want it to come across as sexy, it exudes nervousness; you’re twitchy and pathetic right now and you blame the rain.

She smiles anyway, covers your hands with hers and pulls them down, down, inside her own patted pockets.

“It’s like you’re trying to get sick.”

She made you put on a coat before you got out here and she’s still not satisfied.

“Hello, I’m immune now.”

“No you’re not,” she whispers, quirking a brow in that delicious way she does, and you rest your head against her chest in complete defeat.

You’re not immune to everything.

_Won’t you find it in you, I know you can_

__

__

You’re inclined to be happy, you’d like to, really. But most days, it’s like you’re walking in a field of fever dreams, Zoe at your right, guiding you through, but the dark has such an allure. You don’t know if you could ever quit looking at it, paying attention to it, dedicating all of your days to it.

__

The only time you ever tear your eyes away from it is to look at her. 

__

Like now, you’re in her bed under the white of the covers, thinking of the night you spent in the rain with her, when she sits beside you, the press of her weight on the bed beckoning you closer to her.

__

You peek out from under the covers, popping your head clean out, and—of course—she’s reading.

__

A smile pulls at your lips as you make your way on top of her, but she’s still watching words unfold on the page, a ill-suppressed smile on her face, accompanied by a shake of her head.

__

“Zoe,” you whine, annoyed.

__

“Hm?”

__

You lean into her to kiss the side of her face, the skin where her jaw and earlobe meet.

__

“I called 1-800-Quit-Now for you today, and you’re ignoring me for a book,” you say into her shoulder, “one that you’ve read six fucking hundred times.”

__

“I’ve read it twice,” she coos, smiling, one of her hands is plucking at your t-shirt, “and I wish you’d done it for you.”

__

__

_Skin tough, it’s never enough_

__

__

You want to run away with her. You don’t think it would be so wrong, and you think people would understand, you don’t feel particularly pressed to explain it to them, but Zoe’s thriving. She’s taken over most of Cordelia’s classes, now, done a few elaborate lectures on divination, and she’s so steadfast and devoted it sometimes hurts to watch; you’d never ask her to follow you all the way to nowhere. 

__

You take another subtle drag of your cigarette, it dawns on you that you haven’t been drinking—Zoe made you stop, something about your liver, which you think is irreparable at this point— and you’re also smoking less.

__

Which is just stupid and strange because you’ve always needed a lot of both, never contemplated having less of each, and you briefly wonder, hope, consider—whatever—if she’s curing you altogether.

__

__

_Do whatever, whatever you like_

__

__

You’ve got Fiona’s keys in one hand, doorknob in the other, and you draw a deep breath before making your way out the grand doors.

__

The air is thick and muggy out, even if it’s nearing five in the morning and dusk hasn’t even fully settled, and you hate this weather even if it keeps your skin clear.

__

You’re in the car fiddling with the air conditioner when Zoe opens the passenger‘s door, ducking and lowering herself into the seat beside you.

__

She looks happy, tosses a granola bar in your lap, and your head floods with the thrill of leaving right now, of her wanting this with you.

__

Her hair is still wet from the shower she just jumped out of, and you bask in the settling scent of her shampoo, take all of ten seconds to admire the soft features of her face, the curve her jaw, the outline of her eyes.

__

“Buckle up,” you snark, as if you aren’t both made of magic, as if you couldn’t each rewrite death, carry out a whole cities ruin.

__

“You too. Where are we going?”

__

“I was thinking the beach, if you want to.”

__

“I want to.”

__

Great, because you packed a picnic basket and you think you could catch the sunrise if you leave now, think Zoe might like reading in all that natural light, something you learned she loved a long time ago.

__

Your foot slowly engages the pedal, Zoe rests her head against the window, and you eagerly take in the fact that you feel the lightest you’ve felt, probably ever.

__

__

_But, can’t you tell?_

__

__

You smoke a bowl with Queenie a few times a week, in the grandiose living room, when everyone’s already asleep. You don’t know if Zoe knows, but with her level of concern and disciplinarian tendencies, you think she’s already figured it out and doesn’t care to comment.

__

You’re watching reruns of Hey, Arnold. Queenie’s on the couch eyeing her phone and you’re sat on the floor, curled up with a blanket, your head resting against the couch cushions.

__

You’ve been laughing lazily each time Queenie compares you to Helga, cursing her around it, and you’re really thirsty but you have not a single desire in your body to get up.

__

You sometimes think Zoe is clairvoyant.

__

So, it actually doesn’t surprise you when she emerges from the kitchen, kneels down and hands you a glass of water.

__

Zoe yawns adorably, nudges you with her foot.

__

Queenie snorts, says, “This show is literally about y’all.”

__

You smirk up at Zoe as she observes the splashes of color and noise transpiring on the screen, and when Arnold says something kind and Helga insults him in reply, runs home and into her room and curses against her pillow that she loves him, she loves him, Zoe smiles knowingly.

__

“So unoriginal,” you drawl out, feel your fingers itch to touch her, but you’re slumped against the couch and Zoe’s too freaking tall.

__

“Such a cliche,” Zoe agrees, smiling teasingly, looking right down at you.

__

It prompts you to finish your glass of water, to follow her up the stairs when she starts walking away. You groan, just a little, when you almost trip on the third step, and she’s a few feet ahead and waiting, smiling, and you can’t help but feel glad.

__

“Wow, you’re enjoying this,” you mutter.

__

”I really am.”

__

__

_Two day drive if we both steer_

__

__

You frequent the beach now, wait out the nighttime with her as you cuddle up in your makeshift tent, which is really just a bedsheet and some sticks in the sand. Zoe crafts it, she’s such an innovative, a handy-man and you really hate how hot she is sometimes.

__

__

_I don't care what it takes, it's what we deserve_

__

__

Zoe’s taking her third shower of the day, letting the mildly-scalding water drape over her trim figure, when she hears the telltale click and whine of the door opening.

__

You knocked, you did. 

__

“Madison?”

__

“Hey.”

__

“What’s wrong?”

__

Nothing, really, it’s just that you had this cruelly realistic dream about dying again, for good; but this time, you were hyper aware of the darkness spilling inside you, of Zoe’s sheer absence, of all the light in the world gone.

__

You put the toilet seat down and plant yourself there, the water shuts off.

__

“I love you,” you say, because you’re trying to tell the truth, and you don’t want to actively not say it anymore.

__

Zoe emerges with her hair pinned up already, towel over her chest, skin flushed.

__

You know this whole scene is way too friggin’ hey, Arnold of you when she looks at you in wonder, happy all fucking over.

__

You really do.

__

__

_The sun will come again_

__

__

So, it’s not like you haven’t seen and heard the worst of your life already; days pass and you’re not as empty; not with a girl so full, so whole already, lending you all of her time for reasons that will probably always be beyond you.

__

__

_Bend the window to your will_

__

__

You don’t think you could have predicted any of it. The apocalypse, impending doomsday, Zoe being wiped clean from beneath your feet. All of it entices your vow to loathe this world all over again, harder, greater, like you’re going over what was written in pencil with permanent ink. 

__

Yet, as it’s happening, it’s hardly triggers surprise. The thing inside you swoons at your grief.

__

__

_It's you till the days that were rotten_

__

__

You think there’s a limit to healing, there must be a limit—everyone has a different tolerance for pain, why would tolerance for healing be any different?—because you don’t think you can do it, however pathetic that is, without her.

__

__

_I know you meant it, come back, tell me I'm wrong_

__

__

It’s like your whole freaking life is spent waiting, slipping up, waiting some more. It’s all you can do to pass up this dread; you smoke so much you get sick. Seems impossible for you, something this bad could never happen to you, right? Madison Montgomery, movie star.

__

__

_While I’m stuck somewhere far as fuck_

__

__

You read her books when no ones looking, and everyone’s always looking, seemingly waiting for you to snap, “fine, put on a show for everyone Madison,” is what Zoe used to say when you were bubbling with pent-up anger, just like this.

__

You want to. In her honor, you want to smash everything until your rage spills over and covers every surface that reminds you of her absence, but you’re so spent, too tired to greet any of it, at all.

__

__

_Oh, How far I fell_

__

__

There’s darkness, and there’s black. You miss the former, think it might’ve just been a warning, a promise, a preparation game that god or something felt he owed you. Fucking right. 

__

You do wait it out. Alone, because you know there’s nothing worse than this, and maybe that’s the point. 

__

Maybe there’s nothing and all you have is shrapnel made of her in your pocket, Fiona’s jet black Pontiac, but you’re trying—so much, so hard—for her, and however delayed this drive is, you think she’d still be rooting for you.

__

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics by Corbin :~(


End file.
